


Mending

by Imagistre



Series: Of bonds, past and present [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But Fix Yourself First, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, It's ambiguous, M/M, Multi, No Smut, POV Second Person, Psychological Trauma, Reader-Insert, Skinship, Sorry ladies, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22320640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagistre/pseuds/Imagistre
Summary: The mysterious bracelet your uncle gave you may have more history than it lets on. Meanwhile, you press forward with the horrible journey that is high school. Thankfully, you made a new friend.
Relationships: Bakura Ryou/Reader, Thief King Bakura/Reader, Yami Bakura/Reader
Series: Of bonds, past and present [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606573
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ancient.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516365) by [gravitcul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitcul/pseuds/gravitcul). 



> Hello! Coming out clean right away, this is more than heavily inspired by gravitcul's story. Go check their story first! I love their ability to weave words like a pretty tapestry- the same can be said of their creativity. This is my take on the concept.

“Sage.”

Your uncle uttered your name. It was a simple word, assured in its ushering, cutting through the silence like the precise wave of a baton would in the hand of its conductor. One of the few times he used it, reserved only in sober situations, as he otherwise addressed you with various nicknames of his own creation.

It only made you more aware of your inevitable sulking, right hand cradling your cheek as you further engrossed yourself into tracking the swift dance of fluttering rain drops. You listen to their soft pitter-patter, punctuated only by the sound the engine. He pulled at a stop, turning to meet your hasty glance.

He was frowning, but it held none of the frustration you had anticipated. He knew you would never hurt him intentionally, but your emotions had always been both subdued and potent, a force all of its own. You wore them on your face; tiny details in the form of the crease of your brows, the wavering of your smile, the vacancy in your eyes or the quiet fidgeting of your hands.

“Your mother will get better. For now, just focus on getting by. You know she always wanted you to finish your education. Domino High School is the closest place to do just that.”

Tracing the lines of your palms again, you shift your weight to side, heavy bag digging into your left rib. You play with one of its rough woven straps.

“I know. I’m just… stressed and I-… I just need some time.”

“You know you can always call me.

“Yeah, that phone isn’t there for nothing-“

“And Auntie Marlie too. You know she loves you. Had to risk my life just to deter her from adopting you altogether!”

“Heheh…”

“Now that’s a smile I like to see," he turned to the road, "You’ll be fine Toodles. Now let’s get you settled in at a reasonable hour, shall we?”

“Uncle Jonas, you missed the green light.”

“Ah, drat.”

* * *

The both of you managed to get everything in before anything got too soaked.

Your living space is small at best- it was the only thing you could afford, even with the help of your guardians. On the plus side, it made up for it large windows (that you’d have to cover for privacy later) and cleverly organized space.

It had to- you’d say it was only around twenty-height square feet at best. Apprehensive as you were, the idea of having your own little fort was a bit charming. The idea of unpacking all night, much less so. Though to your credit you decided to get the groceries before coming here, and at least that was one burden off your mind for now.

You had pulled your weight of course, but your uncle insisted on doing most of the heavy lifting. The worst hassle had been to wrestle the laundry set out of the truck. They sat neatly stacked up in the west wardrobe now, waiting to be used. 

"Urgh, thank whoever invented lifting straps."

“Tell me about it. Was that the last box?”

You nod, "Yeah.'"

Jonas decided that the most important things had been organized. You agreed- you could do the rest later tonight. The two of you had still not eaten, and the exhaustion in your bones heavily influenced your choice to get take-out.

“My treat,” he chirped as he always did, refusing to let you pay. Why could he let you help?

You begrudgingly accepted, walking away. 'Can’t really go far,' you grumbled. All the better if you could get some work done before the delivery man came by. Pulling out your personal belongings away, your ruminations somehow paid off, and your frustrations had slowly ebbed away.

That was just his way of being. You should have accepted that a long time ago- the two of you had always been very stubborn.

Much too soon for your liking, your food arrived and you both ate in convivial silence, peppered at times by quiet banter or awful jokes. It was warm.

It was familiar.

You needed that.

But you’d really have to get more kitchenware tomorrow, you took note, washing the containers and putting them aside.

“I think that’s about it Waffles. Before I go though, I got you a little surprise,” he pulled a small wooden box out of his hat.

“What is that?”

“Just a tiny something I got from my travels,” he scratched the back of his neck, “Nothing too fancy, it’s quite damaged but- just open it. You’ll see.”

It was slightly bigger than the size of your palm. Tracing the heavy veins of the discolored brown and red wood, you opened the lid gingerly.

Inside was an elegant large bracelet, placed carefully on linen sheets.

“Is this from Egypt? …”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I must have seen it somewhere. Something about the gold accents, I guess,” you played with the weight of the box in your hands, “Wait, is that real-”

“Apparently yes,” he laughs, “The turquoises are clearly damaged- it must’ve sweetened the deal, though nowhere near as much as I want. You know broken things-“

“… have their own beauty too.”

He smirked, “Right you are, Chickpea.”

“Still, I got it real cheap. The seller spun me a tale about protecting its wearer from danger, promises of success and a happy life filled with good fortune. Something about being a gift from the gods, and other spiel…”

“And you bought that, uncle?”

“Clearly, she was a very convincing, and might I add, beautiful woman, with _loveliest_ of smiles-“

“Uncle!” you squeak credulously.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “Please, don’t tell your aunt again. I’ll never hear the end it.”

“No promises, Jonas,” you smile.

“You scoundrel- after all the trouble I went getting you a gift,” he clutches his heart in a melodramatic display of hurt, “and this where it gets me.”

“Yes, yes, life is a cruel mistress-“

“Also, that thing probably cursed or something.”

“UNCLE!”

“Gwah-ahaha!”

* * *

After Jonas left, you decide to take a shower- to soothe your nerves, if not the soreness of your shoulders. You had left the bracelet on the counter, still untouched.

You can handle yourself alone. You know this: you had done so the majority of your life, ever since you father passed away when you were little. No- that’s no quite true- you had Marlie, Jonas, your friends back home- and your mother, to some extent. You both had come to the silent understanding that she had nor the time or energy to care for you as much as she wished. You did your best to help.

You just wished she did the same.

She still loves you- you think, you hope- she just needs some time. You’d have to bear this for a while. Still, you craved companionship. You didn’t want new friends; it wouldn’t be the same. But maybe it can be the next best thing.

Stepping outside of the modular base, wet feet dripping on the cold ceramic floor, you grabbed a fluffy towel and dryed yourself up, starting with your soaked hair. You didn’t mention it to your guardian but… looking at your present only left you with a sense of unease. No, it was more than that. The more you thought about it, the more its wrongness settled in.

As if it shouldn’t be here. As if it shouldn’t exist.

It would have been normal jewelry, if not for its antiquity.

It had probably been very beautiful in the past, but now it only made your blood run cold. Maybe the thing really is cursed- No, that can’t be. It’s only a necklace. But how could it feel so ominous? As if it had been overflowing with negative energy. It’s only worse now that you’re alone. Now you get what people meant by “bad vibes”. You try to decipher its feeling, focusing on the rhythmic pulsing in your veins.

_"Everything possesses a heart, Sage."_

_"Auntie, what do you mean by that?"_

_"That's... difficult to articulate," she brought her index to her lips, "Have you ever cherished something to the extent that could you somehow feel it speak to you? A toy, a photo, or precious gift perhaps?"_

_"Hmm... yeah. More or less."_

_"That's what it means. Energy in the form of emotion. It is a powerful thing. And sometimes, it lingers forever."_

_"Forever?" the alloy tucked safely in your vest felt warm, "Even after they're long gone?"_

_She smiled at you then. "Yes."_

Crazy as it sounds, you think you can feel what's beyond. You close your eyes, allowing that feeling to soak in.

**_It’s lonely._ **

****

**_It’s damaged._ **

**_It wants to be held._ **

****

**_It wants to be held._ **

**A pang- You can sympathize with that- you try to focus on that invisible line. Grasp it. What's at the end of the line?**

**_Tragedy. Calamity._ **

**_Death._ **

**_It is immense_ **

**_The finality of all things._ **

**_But_ **

**_should it be_ **

**_Salvation of its own-_ **

****

**_‘NO!’ you panic, ‘I won't let that -!’_ **

**_Then,_ ** **_it wants to be held._ **

****

**_‘Fine! Just–‘_ **

You put the damn thing on. Something breaks, the ringing in your ears coming to a stop. You wrestle for control of your lungs.

The feeling’s gone. The bracelet sits loosely around your wrist, soaking your warmth as the minutes tick by.

“What the hell am I doing…”

It shakes, and your eyes snap to look at your hand again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was sick being held hostage in his own body.

_Unable to be opened, your eyes remain shut_ _._

 _Darkness coils around you. It hungers and festers._ ****

_They cannot do much._

_You_ _will not wither._ ****

_It’s alright._

_You’ll wait as long as it takes_.

_You have Eternity._ ****

* * * 

Heavy. Your arms, you realize, crushing your ribcage with how leathery they feel. Even so, your breathing remains slow and easy. Snug and warm, curled up against yourself in an odd side position, though that feeling of comfort is slowly receding like a wave as grogginess unceremoniously takes its leave. To your still-shut eyes, the sound of driblets steadily drumming against your windows is the only indicator that this afternoon's storm came back with a vengance, and through it you hear a dry, metallic snap.

“…?”

With a sharp ting comes rolling a broken golden strap, not far away from you. Body still stiff, you sluggishly rise to look at the source, your wrist.

You feel better than you did before. Whatever semblance of anxiety had melted away from the ornament, the feeling of danger it held is gone. Now, light seem to swirl and reflect in those gems embedded in. The stones somewhat regained their original color, though it might be wishful thinking on your part. But it’s not just that. The bracelet is smaller.

It feels light as a feather, but for the love of everything that is good, you swear it’s locked on your arm. Naturally, you try to take it off. You lever it every angle possible until your wrist is red and sore- you also used soap too, but the damn thing is impossibly snug, and it works just about as well as your panicked brain or your trembling legs at the moment.

Of course they give away, leaving you to sit uncomfortably on the undusted floor of your living room, breathing uneven and frustrated tears carelessly threatening to fall down your cheeks.

Why are you on the floor in the first place?

What the hell happened? 

What time is it now?

8 PM. Oh. Okay. 

At least the universe answers one of your questions. You wipe away some tears with you forearm. Actual sleep sounds like a great idea. A fantastic idea, in fact. Shame you’re not feeling tired anymore, at least not physically. Sometimes, when you feel like this working yourself to the point of exhaustion is the only way you’ll knock yourself out. In no way healthy, but it’ll have to do for now.

Just as you stand up, there’s a heavy knock on the door.

You freeze for what feels longer than you should.

It can't be Jonas, he must be halfway home by now.

Reluctantly walking toward the door, you lean to look through the peephole.

To your suprise, the person looks overall innocuous enough, however you know better than to rely on that. He's around your age, maybe a little younger. His skin is almost as pale as his hair. Which is saying something because _it's white_ , for goodness sake. For a moment you worry. He's catching his breath. Did he run? You didn't think the neighborhood you and Jonas picked as a shady one. The way his face is contorted with unrest doesn't sit right by you. He looks like a scared rabbit, holding his hand tightly to his chest.

It's not sound logic that drives you open the door, but you'll deal with the consequences afterward. You don't want the guilt of someone's safety on your conscience for once. 

"Hey, are you alright? Did someone hurt you?"

In the span of seconds, myriad of emotions come across his face, a bit too fast for you to decipher. Shock, then a bit of awe, immediately replaced by something akin to disgust, followed by dismay. He seems suprised that you answered- understable- like he wants to scold you and thank you at the same time. By the end he seems more mature than you initially though. Washed-out. 

"What's-"

"I'm sorry..." he catches his breath, and there's that it's that guilty look again on his face again, "Is it... is it alright for me to ask your name?"

He looks at you very seriously, and the absurdity of the scene finally hits you. 

"Was that a pickup line?" an amused smile reaches your eyes.

Scanning the streets behind him you only hear the distant buzz and hum of cars and neon street lamps, and allow yourself to ease up somewhat. You watch him fluster as he stutters and struggles explain himself. He's cute, really cute. Assuring the boy that you do believe him, you apologize (quite remorselessly) for stressing him out. 

"Hm. Well... you'll have to give me yours first."

"Ryo. Ryo Bakura." He's looking at you with barely restrained attentiveness.

"My name's Sage."

"Ah."

"What happened to your hand? It's all bandaged." 

You must have struck a nerve, because he's not looking at you anymore. So you fill his silence with words hopefully more kind than the storm raging on behind his dull eyes. 

"Sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Come on, you're soaked. Let me get you towel at least."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ̸̧̭̭̠̥̲̀͒̀͗̔ ̸̟̟̼̹̏̈́̏̊ ̵͎͂ ̶̡̓ ̴̨͓̰͉͈͓͐̈́̉̋ ̴̬͙̑̐͊ ̷̢̗͓̫̻͖͒̒͌̊̀̋ ̵̯͉̥̩͈̈́̋͑̃͝ ̷͎͕̞̜̈̓̆͝ ̸̣͊ ̵̮͋͗͠ ̷̰̲̫͐ ̵̡̲͑͐͋ ̷̭͉̯̌̈́̕͜ ̶̛̪͉̳̈͂ ̷̮͉́̑̈́̇̕͝ ̴̨̬͚̖͋͜͜ ̷̛̬̠̄͌́͂̌ ̷̯͉̏̈́̿͗ ̵̣̣͓̜̱̝̈́̈̔́̅ ̷̛̣̘̟̤̂̄̈́ ̶̛̠̫͓̊́͋̓ ̵̱̬͊ ̶͇̦̭̃̑ ̷̯̤̔̌̽̾ ̷͖̗̳̖͚͌ͅ ̶̘̮̙͙̇ͅ ̷͈͍̔ͅ  
> ̵̻̘͖͕̲̗̀̔̈́͝b̶̛͉̠̥̈́̀̄̏̃e̸͍̗̟̱̣̍̈́̑͑̔l̷̞̻̆͆̀̾ǫ̵̞͕͕̯̺̀̏̒͑́͠v̸̺̄̆̾͘e̷̗͉̋͑d̶̟̟̆̿̇͘͠ ̵̘̪͎̣́ ̶̼͕̌ ̷̛̗̖̻͎͆͋̇̓͆ ̸̬̳̜͂ ̷̧͖̗̗̙̿̂͂́́ͅ  
> ̵̞̙͈̀̈́͂̒͌̔͜b̶̞̍̒̎e̶͍̭̲̙̓̉̉l̶͉̈́͑̃̓o̶̧̱̩̝̲͔͛͠v̶̬̣̺̰̉ë̸̗̟́́̃͝ͅd̸̺̀̐̎̍ ̵̢̪͙̔̓͆͂̋ ̵̻̫̏̔̊̚͠ ̵̣̺̈́͘ ̶̠̮͖̿̈̈́̄͝  
> ̵̛͉̓ẅ̶͉̥́̌͑ạ̴͖͚̉t̵̛̻̪͗̇ͅe̴̡̛̲̺̪̗̩r̷͍̘͋̌̅̒̽ ̸̭͐̓̈͛̍l̷͇͖̘̯͐͜i̸͇̜̘̒l̷̛͔̣̳̙̬̊̍͑̓̌y̵͕͖̯̋̽̅͜  
> ̶̦̩̫͎̑ ̶̹͖͆̅̀̍͠ ̸̡̮͊ ̶̡̧̖̳͖͑̓̓ ̷̦̘͓̥͆̎͘ ̷̢̱̘̤͂̔̚ͅ ̷̧̠̪̝͔̬̀̀ ̶͙̱͕͑̑ ̴̣̤͙̣̯͆̌̾̾̾͛ ̴̳̼͚͐̚͝ ̷̛̪̜̎̓͌ ̴̨̼̥̯̭͗ͅ  
> ̵͙̐̍͂̿c̵̨̺̳͍̬̹͌̍͋͊̿̈́h̴̪̝̤́͆̽̚͜e̶̥̗͖̣̥͒̚͜r̶̙̞̲̳̉̔̕͠͝í̵̛̹̫̇̉̚ͅs̴̛̪͑͗ȩ̶̻̠̼͍̍̒̂͐̓̕d̴̯͖̖͈̤̊̊̎ ̴̬̱̭͙̈́̇͜ ̷̨̜̳͖̺͂̔̆̚  
> ̶̨̠̬̳̳͆͋͘h̶̖̤͕͋̅̄̂͜ạ̸̪̥̯͋̚l̸̮̮͍̃̈́͛l̸̬̦͍͍͔̰͌̌̓̀͘o̷̠̥͌̉͠w̴̠̳͋͋̈́͘e̵͇̓͐͗̎͠d̸͍̲̬̓͝ ̸̫̟͚͇̞̅̀̿̐͠͝ ̶̨̢̛̰̩̬͆̈́̈̒͌  
> ̴̲͍̇͒̚t̶͈̣̖̲̥̃̕͘͝o̴̢̗͉̣̲̳͗̍̑g̴̨̨͔͆ͅë̴̫́̒t̸̮̜̅h̷̪̅̀e̷̝̰͂̿͆̿ṛ̵̩̝͕̩̞͛̐͂̊͠ ̷̜́̈́̔̓͝ ̴̹̘̺̉̆̊ ̶̰̝̪̑̄̒  
> ̸̛͇͚͉͙͉͑̿̾o̷̜̭̗̦̓̀n̶̢̥͂̽ͅċ̶̞̼̜̔̈́́ḙ̷̱̣͖̼͔̇͂ ̷͔̍̏̒͗͊̏m̴̞̬̖͚̦̽o̷̦̎͊͊͘r̷̮̦̽͆͂̃͜͠ḛ̴̛̼̩̰̼͖̈́̂̓͝  
> ̴̜̜͂̂̇̓͘ͅ.̴̧͔͆̃.̷̢̙̖͋͂̚̕.̸͚̱̺̊͆͜ ̶̰̻̂̕.̸̫̲̾͜.̸̨̧̧̻͠.̸̧̢͙͚̲͊̂̾̈͠  
> ̸̢͎̖̝͒͋͑̈́̈́̃ͅw̶̱̪͈͊̒̈́͂̕ȩ̴͎̭̎̑̃̃͐ ̶̡͇̳͂̌̇f̶̰̣̺̾̆͛̆̑͊o̸̧̝͎̘̠̽͜͠ǘ̷̗́͛͜n̸͖͙̔̀̎͗̒͐d̶̨̯͕̖̈́̽͆̅͗  
> ̷̢̗̝͈͗t̷͉̿h̶̫͕̍e̸̜͉̐ ̵̨̪̰͖̔͊̄̓͠m̴̢̭͉͙̦̗̓͊̏͘͠͝ơ̷͙̽͋̈s̷̠̝̿͘t̷̮̲͌̚  
> ̸͍̺̻̻̱̓͊b̴̤͌͑̄̎e̵͚͍͘l̴͈̩̭̄̔̽͌ö̷̧̬́͊͝v̴̡̦̳̼̱̥̇̍̓͑̽̋e̵̯̪̔̈́d̸̡͓̓̀͒͠,̸̨̓̉  
> ̶͍̞͉̩̝̰̋̑̎̚b̸̡̠͓̋͠ę̴̖̰̮̖̼͗l̴͔̂ó̶̢̠̳̗͠v̸̫͂͠ė̴͍̈́͋̋d̸̲̭͙̗͊ ̴͉̓̇ ̶̞͑̚͝ ̶̪̝̠̦̭͊͝ ̴̤̖͗̓́̕͠ ̸͇̈́͊̅̒  
> ̷̛͈̅̓͘p̴̛̖͛͌̏̊a̷͇̲̰̾̈́͑̒̑ṭ̴͉̦͈̚h̴̏͋͊̌̽͠ͅe̶̱͇̝͙͕͗͝͝ṭ̷͍̎h̷̺̮̐̊̍̅͐̎i̸̧̮̿̑̑͘͝c̴̙̘̭͕̫̆̒̓̈́͆͝ ̶̗̦̮̑̀͑͗͊͝ ̴̧̧̲̮͈̞́͌̾̈̾͗ ̴͉̥͔̬͈̝̈́̒̓̇  
> ̸͖͔̮̼̮̘͂͌t̵͕̄́̍͑͌̊ŗ̸̧̠̜̠̲̃͂̐̍̚̕ẹ̷͑̓̅̒̾a̴͙͚̹̜͂͆̿̓c̶͙̾̂h̶͉̳̩͆͌͛e̴̡̜̭̟͓̾͐͊̾̚r̸͔͈͙͙̝̾̊͝ő̷͙͖ǘ̷͓̬̙̞̬̌̌͜s̸̝͍̫͋  
> ̵̥̝̔̌̃d̸͔̱̭̝̃̈̓͜͝ȩ̶̞̽ͅs̸̨̠̜̍̾́̒p̶̛̦̯̻̥͉̈͒̑͗͘i̵̹̻̼̾̓̓s̸̪̪̓͌ȩ̴̈̐͠d̶̡̩̗̦͖͌͑̃͗̚ͅ ̴̛̝̞͈̋̋̈́̃ ̴̤̇͑̽̉ ̷͔̤̩͉̥͈̃ ̶̦̙͐̈́͌  
> ̵͇͎̹͍̳͖̍̂́͆w̸̜̅̄a̸̺̭͋͊͝ţ̵̹̦̲̐̆̂e̵̤̲̗̩͆̈́͛͝r̴̡̝̯̭̿͒͒͋͗̕ ̴̰̝̈́̒͊̊͂l̵̢̫̏̀̿î̵̻l̸̻̻̄̇̒ͅy̴̲̺͙̖̙̗͆ ̷̧̩̖̪͍̘̅͒̈́̕ ̸̛̥̦̱͚̌͝ ̵̻͎̣͍͙̻͛̂͆̀͝ ̸̖̇̅͂̂̾  
> ̶͓̹́̾͆̂̈́͗ ̵̡̣̪̜͙̈́͊̾̊ ̷̢̰͈̞̲̰̉̈́̕ ̵̧̻̞͕̠̓̍̄̈͆ ̸̥̻͑̉ͅ ̷̢͈̫̥͎͛̌ͅ ̸̛̭͓ ̴̞͉͚̔̈ ̷̧̢̠͙̘̆̑͊͒͆ ̶̧̜̩̿̉ ̷̬͈̹̑̽̓̌͂͂ ̶̦͚̣͛̀ ̶̛̲͛͝ ̷̟̼̥̈́̌ ̴͓̌ ̷̢̙̪͓̦͑̀͠ ̷̩̙͙̝͖̝̿̕ ̶͇̭̮̥̎̏͘͠ͅ ̵̳͂̈́́͒͝ ̶̯̖͉̹̍̇̈ ̴̢̙̝̱̊͂͜ ̶̮͚̈ ̵̩̼̰̃̅̎̊͌͝  
> ̸̡̨̹̾̕W̴̢͔̓̋̉̾ȇ̸̢͉͕̣͕ ̵̢̭̱̺͓͎͌̓͠f̸͉̬͖̠͉̏̚͘o̵̭̥̠̊͘u̶̡͇̺̲̼̓̓n̸̡̺̦͒͒̋͐ͅd̶̻̜͖͉̱̦̆ ̸͖̀y̵̧̡̻̳̯̦̚o̷̡̲̻̤͆̒û̸̬́̕.̶̪̊͌͗́̽ ̸̥̗̔͆̽́͠  
> ̸̧̘͎̱͖̃̕ ̸̦̭̮̫̀̂͋̍̾̓ ̵̨̩͕͍̤̪̄̏̊͊̅͠ ̵̺͙̻̪̘̲ ̵̜̙͍̺̂̈̏̂͘͝ ̵͕̫̍̄͊̎̓̑ ̴͈̯̝̳̻̿͑̀̋͗̓ ̵̳̲͍̙̫̍̉̽̋̾ ̸̢̢͇͎̱̜̊̔̒̆͋̉ ̴̫̬̙̯̞͔̑̈́̓̓͝ ̵̧̱̔͗͛ ̵̺̐̿ ̵͖̼͉͉̣̭̽̈́̏̚͝ ̶̦̲̦̳̇͜ ̵̹͍̗̲̼̭̀̈͆͐ ̷̙͖̼͛̏̂͛͘͝ͅ ̵͇͉͝͝ ̶̢̲̝̙̃̀̉̚ ̴̲͕͈̂̚ ̴̧̻̦́̏̒͝ ̶̛̥̱̓̓̓̊ ̶̪͖̬͆̅͛ ̷̫̲̃͘͜͝ ̷̛̼̖͉͓̲̅͐͊͑ ̵̖̣̰͓̪̈́̄͐ ̴̛͍͓͇̪̘̣ ̷̡̭̀̾͊̚ ̷̻̾̔̕ ̴̧̗̳̤͓̬͆̄ ̵̗̀̐̌͘ ̶̖͕͈͖͈̃͌͆͠͝͠ ̷̢̝͍̖͈͉̈́ ̴͚͇̝̹͓̾͗̾̈́ͅ ̷̲̹̬̍̏̈́̿̈́̾ ̶̛̲̜̻̩̗͊̊̅̉̉ ̶̣̘̦̦̲̓̍̕ ̸̝̪̦͒ ̴̗͈̭̹͂̀͜ ̵̛̫̥̬̙̮͂͠͠͝ ̴̦̺̊̾́ ̷̦̼͙̣̋̚̕ ̴̰̟̋̂ ̶̲̗̹̬̜̦̈̏̕ ̷͇̜̖͕̌ ̴̥̱͚͕͊̍ ̵̗̹̫͑́


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